


Out with the Old

by BelladonnaWyck, raiast



Series: Auld Lang Syne [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Aaaaaand Will is a thirsty slut, Bottom Will, Breaking in to make sure sounds like a good plan, But he gets a finger in, Dark Will Graham, Dommy Bottom Will, Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal knows Will Knows, M/M, Not sure what to do about it though, Ringing in the New Year by railing out your semi-enemy semi-soulmate, Sassy Will Graham, Top Hannibal, Unexpected horniness via vicarious murder, Whoops house not empty, Will Knows, Will no longer has encephalitis, not us, s1 divergence, who's surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaWyck/pseuds/BelladonnaWyck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast
Summary: “They say what you’re doing at midnight is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year,” Will murmurs. He turns his focus to a darkened corner of the room, where one shadow has begun to split from another. “Can I assume this means it’s gonna be a busy year for the Ripper?”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Auld Lang Syne [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085384
Comments: 26
Kudos: 275





	Out with the Old

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for escaping this shitshow of a year by reading the filth we wrote to get us through it. Here's hoping everyone's new year is as enjoyable as Will and Hannibal's is about to be.
> 
> This story is not set in the same verse as Anno Domini, it's a stand alone!

Will Graham has never considered the advantages of going mad until their absence was felt. Certainly, he was grateful to be rid of the constant, throbbing headaches, the dangerous sleepwalking and vivid, horrifying nightmares that accompanied it. But madness brought with it a certain level of blindness, and made for a great excuse to shatter the shackles of accountability.

Without his mind burning, the world melting into hallucinations he could only partly shy from and mostly trust, Will cannot pretend that what he is doing isn't blatant breaking and entering. Nor can he wave away the reason  _ why _ he’s chosen to trespass upon his psychiatrist’s property. He picks the lock to the garden door dutifully and carefully, forcing his freezing fingers to work with care and telling himself it’s because it would be stupid to leave behind scratches, any evidence of his presence; certainly not because it would be  _ rude. _

Some might consider what Will is doing madness in itself, but in the weeks since his recovery, Will found that clarity can be just as damning. When the thought first entered his mind, he simply waved it away as a lingering touch of encephalitis. It was almost easy to pretend the thoughts that began to haunt him after were the result of permanent damage, and not the fact he was beginning to  _ see. _

When his middle-aged therapist survived the attack of a madman that resulted in two dead bodies on his office floor - the bodies of two other officer’s cooling in Tobias Budge’s string shop - Will could no longer cling to his blindness. He told himself every night for a week that he ought to go to Jack, and every night for a week he found some excuse not to. There was little evidence, after all, besides Will’s own hunch. And while that might be enough of a lead for Jack to follow in other instances, no one wanted to be told the sheep they’d befriended had actually been a wolf all along.

So instead of running to Jack, Will runs  _ from _ him, and tells himself the better play is to snoop around Hannibal’s home, to find evidence. To be  _ sure, _ even though Will already is. It crosses his mind as he crosses the threshold into the lair of a monster, that perhaps his fear resides less in that Jack won’t believe him, and more that he  _ will. _ That thought Will  _ does _ brush away as lingering traces of madness, unwilling to examine the implications of it.

New Year’s Eve had seemed as safe a time as any for Will’s purposes - knowing what he does of Hannibal, he can only imagine the man at the pinnacle of Baltimore’s High Society was invited to at least half a dozen different soirees to ring in the new year. That Hannibal might not have accepted a single one of those invitations doesn’t occur to him until Will is stepping into a kitchen he knows so well, dimly lit from an opening in the pantry he’s never seen before.

Will’s stomach plummets at the sight, his heart faltering for half a breath before beginning to pump again at double time. He tells himself it’s not excitement buzzing through his veins as he steps closer; if he can be blind about Hannibal, he decides resolutely, he can be blind about himself as well. The fact that he’s actively stepping toward a sight that can only further shatter the illusion he’s been clinging to for weeks doesn’t seem to occur to him.

Hannibal knows he’s here, of that he is certain; if not Will himself, than  _ someone. _ There’s no way a predator like him wouldn’t detect the moment more prey had stumbled into their grasp. All the same, he’s nowhere to be found when Will descends into the not-so-hidden basement. What he  _ does _ find, is that he’s interrupted a master at work.

The man is naked and bleeding sluggishly from what Will assumes are very deliberate cuts, strapped to a table in the center of what Will can only call a  _ murder room. _ The ability to turn his head is impeded by the strap that crosses his forehead, binding it too to the table, but it’s clear the man has heard his cautious approach, his eyes darting wildly to the side as he attempts to view the newcomer, his eyes leaking tears as pleas fall rapidly from a sluggish tongue.

“Please, please,” the man begs, fingers twitching as he attempts to struggle against his bonds. Will’s willing to bet whatever he’s been drugged with has started to wear off just in time for him to feel every ounce of pain intended to be squeezed from him. “He’s still here, he’ll come back. Please hurry -”

Will doesn’t hurry. He steps up to the table with the wholly inappropriate sensation of childlike wonder flooding him, making his chest feel full and his head light. He takes a moment to examine the incisions that cross trembling flesh, but it appears Will has interrupted early, and he can’t yet see whatever design Hannibal has planned.

“They say what you’re doing at midnight is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year,” Will murmurs. He turns his focus to a darkened corner of the room, where one shadow has begun to split from another. “Can I assume this means it’s gonna be a busy year for the Ripper?”

The look in Hannibal’s eyes is as dangerous as it is appealing, his eyes the color of amber and just as crystalizing. Will imagines he can see the open entryway of the mind palace that has been haunting his mind of late - a place not of his own creation, rather an amalgam of the silent solitude of his stream and the ornate lavishness of Hannibal Lecter. 

It had been snowing outside and the snow caked to the edges of Will’s shoes is melting into a puddle beneath his feet, making any thought of escape nearly impossible even if Will had  _ wanted  _ to escape. He wants to hear Hannibal’s voice, he realizes suddenly; something to fill the hollow, echoing ache of his once peaceful stream. The forests are painfully silent on his own, the breeze shaking the branches but making no sound. He can hear music pouring from the open door of the palace, and lights flickering in the distant rooms. What if he allowed himself to step through it, this time? Let himself walk across the engraving on the floor and into the bowels of the place, a living, breathing representation of Hannibal Lecter and his influence on Will’s decidedly  _ untasty  _ thoughts of late. 

Hannibal’s head tilts to the side for a moment, that birdlike inquisitive quality Will is starting to realize means the other man is assessing him, determining how best to respond; how to adjust his person suit to fit the situation at hand. He wants to rattle the good doctor, wants to see him as exposed as Will feels since the fires in his brain were quelled by Hannibal’s  _ good mood  _ and seeming curiosity in Will’s mind without the encephalitis wreaking havoc. 

Hannibal looks from Will to the man on the table, a sharpness around his mouth that’s more than just the teeth he shows when he smiles. Will can’t believe he’s never noticed before, how natural it is for Hannibal to look the part of monster; far more natural than his role as a man. “Are you planning to watch or participate, Will?” He pauses, not moving but the subtle shift of his muscles shows Will how tense he is, like a cobra ready to strike. Will sees the glint of a blade in Hannibal’s hand and realizes he’s holding a scalpel. “Or should I expect dear Uncle Jack and the best and brightest of the FBI at my door if I were to try to leave?” 

Will scoffs, knowing good and well Hannibal wouldn’t just  _ leave.  _ If he thought himself threatened he’d kill Will and be done with it. Though that’s not quite right, Will imagines. There’s some part of Hannibal that cares for Will enough that the loss might be felt, might resonate and reverberate throughout the rest of Hannibal’s days; an echo of what might have been. No, Will thinks Hannibal will only kill him if necessary. 

Will doesn’t plan on making it a necessity. 

“Neither. We have far more important things to talk about than the latest  _ pig on your butcher block,  _ Hannibal.” At the dark glimmer in Hannibal’s eyes Will continues. “Like how you let me burn for weeks, let my brain turn me into my own worst enemy. Let me  _ suffer  _ for your amusement.” 

“You suffer beautifully, dear Will. Though I couldn’t allow a mind as singular and lovely as yours to be too overwrought. You’ll recall I’m the one who informed you of your sickness all those weeks ago; helped you expedite the treatment process.” 

Will laughs outright at that, rolling his eyes for good measure. “And I’m sure that was all totally selfless, just from the goodness of your heart, right?” He’s not even remotely bitter that talking is so easy with Hannibal, even now, even after everything he knows. Hannibal is still the closest thing to a best friend he’s ever had, the only person he never feels awkward with. 

Hannibal’s head tilts to the opposite side now, and his smile is slow and saccharine. “Is it easier to cast me as the villain in your story rather than admit your own uncertainties? Your own intrigue.” 

“Oh, I’m feeling pretty damn certain of late,  _ Doctor Lecter.”  _ Will hadn’t had a plan when he’d arrived, hadn’t really known what he’d do even when he found the man here mere moments ago, but an idea is starting to form nebulously in the back of his mind, the flames of which are fanned by the growing need developing in the pit of his stomach. He’d expected any number of emotions to eventually hit him when he finally confronted Hannibal; revulsion, fear, anger, aggression. What he hadn’t expected, after all the weeks alone with his thoughts and his frustrations, was  _ desire.  _

Will knows, like birds know how to fly or fish know how to swim - he knows like how it’s a natural, thoughtless process for his lungs to expand and collapse, that Hannibal cares for him. He’s not certain how he’s managed to find himself playing the part of muse to the Chesapeake Ripper, but he’d seen Hannibal's last display. A body surrounded by flowers the color of a burning, boiling sun. A man on fire. More than a bit on the nose now that Will’s vision is clear, but no less beautiful for it. He’s not sure when he started seeing the Ripper as an artist rather than a serial killer, but the realization doesn’t worry him as much as he thought it might. 

Hannibal, in his own strange, psychotic way, has been offering Will something from the moment they met; has pushed him to slay self-doubt and restraint and accept himself for what he is - which is exactly as Hannibal had described him all those months ago: just alike.

It didn’t occur to him until he stood face to face with the doctor again that it might be an offer he was willing -  _ wanting -  _ to accept.

Hannibal’s eyes glint as he takes another slow step forward. Will leans back against the table behind him, and all at once he’s flooded with a very misplaced sense of safety; how many times have they spoken just like this in Hannibal’s office, the only haven Will has ever known? He can almost feel the warmth of a fireplace against his back in the dank chill of the basement.

“How novel for you. Tell me, Will, beyond the rather irrefutable evidence of your revelation surrounding me,” Hannibal gestures to the basement around him and continues his steady, measured pace forward, “what else have you grown so certain about?”

Will gaze drops to the ground in front of his feet, his chest aching as he forces out the words and begs that still reluctant part of himself to believe them. “I don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Hannibal’s step halt immediately, the man freezing so completely in his shock that Will’s eyes are forced to pull back up to his face. The killer’s stiff and guarded countenance thaws a moment later, his gaze almost turning pitying when he agrees, “No, you don’t.”

Despite every revelation Will has faced and relented to recently, he's not quite ready to address the warm swell of emotion that threatens to suffocate him when he faces the most earnest expression Hannibal has ever offered him. 

Instead, he forces his lips to quirk into a grin and nods to the man behind him, who has been struggling against his bonds more and more with each passing minute. "I interrupted you."

Hannibal’s gaze flits to his awaiting pig and then back to Will in a single breath. On his next step forward, Will watches as he raises the bloodied scalpel in his hand and extends it in offering. “Would you care to assist me? I have a spare suit you could borrow.”

Will’s attention is drawn to the plastic suit that fits snugly over the three-piece Hannibal is still wearing beneath it. He’d noticed it upon arrival, but hadn’t spared it much contemplation, what with being slightly more concerned with staying alive. He’s extraordinarily unimpressed to see that Hannibal has chosen a covering that was clear, so he might still showcase his awful and expensive wardrobe to his victims. Will files this thought away to rib Hannibal with at another time.

He gives a shake of his head, but offers Hannibal a small smile as he refuses. “You clearly have a vision for this. I’d hate to ruin your aesthetic.”

“A death at your hands could only ever be beautiful, Will.”

It’s absolutely ridiculous that such a sentiment has Will’s cheeks burning with a blush, but then, Will supposes he leads a fairly ridiculous life. “I’ll  _ observe,” _ he teases as he steps around to the other side of the table. “Not often one gets a front row seat to watch the Ripper at work.”

“More often than you might think,” Hannibal corrects him. His gaze drops back down to the pig before him, and the cruel smirk that twists his lips sends both a chill and a wave of heat through Will. “Though generally not a coveted position.”

Even though the words are languid and teasing, Will can still see the shades of doubt gathered around the edges of Hannibal’s gaze, like a dragon hoarding gold. More than that, he understands why Hannibal so gluttonously protects his soft insides. He may not know the details, but he can feel the all too familiar mark left behind by the grief inherent in loss. He knows at once that understanding the reason for his sharp edges will change both everything and nothing of how he sees Hannibal.

“All the same, you have an audience,” Will points out, suddenly anxious to pull Hannibal into a lighter mood. He leans back against the counter behind him, making himself comfortable in the least intrusive way possible, and then waits for Hannibal’s eyes to pull up to his own once more before he flashes him a wry smirk. “Entertain me, Ripper.”

And Hannibal  _ does, _ so thoroughly and intimately that Will finds his pulse ticking up with every glide of Hannibal’s scalpel, every choked groan of the man on his table. Hannibal all but forgets his audience as he sinks into his work, and Will is afforded the opportunity to observe the monster beneath the person suit with free rein; the cold, detached gaze that studies his subject, the patient, practiced movements of his hand as he paints bloody fissures across his canvas. It’s art - it truly is - more than Will could ever have imagined bearing witness to, and it leaves him wholly and completely breathless.

It does other things to him as well; things he, at first, attempts to push from his mind. But without any warning, Hannibal seems to remember he’s not alone with his subject, and he only spares Will one passing glance as he begins to speak, detailing the incisions he’s made, the way the body beneath him is responding to his manipulations. Will can no longer ignore the heat pulsing low in his gut, the absurd sensation of blood rushing to his groin. He’s hot, and anxious in a way that has nothing to do with worry, and before long he finds himself growing unimaginably  _ bored _ of the proceedings.

He has the fleeting thought that maybe he should have chosen to participate after all, but then his eyes settle on Hannibal’s blood-soaked hands as they glide over his pig’s ruined torso, and with the twitch of his cock he understands at once why he’s suddenly grown so irritable.

“Gonna be much longer?” He frames the question as innocently as possible, because even over the coppery stench of blood and acrid sting of fear in the air, the good doctor should certainly be able to detect the arousal that must have been pouring off of Will for even longer than he realized now.

“Masterpieces must not be rushed,” Hannibal responds placidly, without even glancing towards him. “And every work of the Ripper  _ is _ a masterpiece. The ugliness and cruelty of man elevated to beauty in death.”

“Well something of  _ mine’s _ elevated too,” Will points out shortly. “It’s nearing midnight, and there’s things I want to be doing for the rest of the year other than watch you slaughter someone. Excruciatingly slowly.”

_ That _ draws Hannibal’s gaze, his muddied amber eyes peering over at Will beneath a brow quirked with intrigue. His hands - his dexterous, deadly,  _ beautiful  _ hands - still completely as his focus is drawn away from them, and Will has the sudden and irrational urge to jostle them into motion once more, force them to slip where they never intended to delve. His voice is measured when he speaks, but Will is certain he can see the uptick of Hannibal’s pulse where it pounds at the base of his throat.

Will wants to taste it.

“Is that so?”

Will hums his assent, pushing away from the counter and sauntering around the edge of the table. “Just right. I’ll be in the bedroom, when you’re done.” He pauses as he shifts passed Hannibal, tilting his head closer as he murmurs coyly. “Twenty minutes to midnight, Doctor. Better hurry; I also don’t plan to be doing it  _ alone _ all year.”

\---

Hannibal works with an expediency unfamiliar to him, so accustomed to taking his time and savoring the experience of transforming filth into art. Doubt lingers in the back of his mind like snow drifts, cold and dangerous. Will’s implicated himself by standing by and watching as Hannibal works, and that alone would almost be enough to convince him of the man’s truth in his interest. 

The look in his tempest tossed eyes, the greedy gleam threatening to consume them all whole is even more convincing. 

It’s enough to send a shiver down Hannibal’s spine and to alight something in his chest he’d long since thought snuffed out. Will is unpredictable; more than that, he’s  _ insightful.  _ He sees Hannibal in a way no other ever has, ever could. He sees him and he’s still  _ there.  _ He’s not running, not yet, and Hannibal is starting to believe not ever. He’d seen the darkness dwelling in the edges of Will’s consciousness, like calling to like from that very first meeting, but he would never have been able to predict this outcome. 

Decades stretch out behind him, alone but not lonely. Not until Will. Now, when Hannibal looks at the decades to come before him, all he sees is Will Graham. 

He shakes himself free of the cobwebs and does a cursory clean of his work area; it’ll keep, he can come back to it in the morning. If there even is a morning. He walks up the stairs with the knowledge he may not walk down them ever again. If he’s read this wrong, if Will has managed to be a truly convincing liar. 

Hannibal hovers at the invisible boundary of his bedroom door, slightly cracked enough to let a strip of jaundiced lighting spill across the floor and into the hall. He’s never felt trepidation before, but the hand he places on the door is steady when he pushes it the rest of the way open. 

It takes every fiber of his control not to gasp when he sees Will spread out on his dark blue silk sheets, beautifully nude and with two fingers already scissoring himself open. He’s resplendent, absolutely gorgeous, an Adonis in repose. His curls are already matting against his temples, his lower back glistening with the slight exertion in the low light. Hannibal doesn’t realize he’s made a sound - an animal growl that still rumbles in his throat - until Will laughs, eyes sharp where they pin Hannibal in place. 

“Doctor Lecter, nice of you to join me.”

The fact that Will is actively  _ preparing _ himself strikes Hannibal all at once, as though it had taken a few moments for even  _ his _ brilliant mind to understand the implications of just such an action. If Will is the one being prepared for fucking, then Hannibal is expected to  _ do _ the fucking. It is, naturally, a thought - not fantasy, Hannibal would never allow himself the whimsy of  _ fantasizing  _ \- that has crossed his mind a time or two. More than once he’s attempted to conjure the image of Will Graham behind the dark depths of his closed eyes. But time and again he’s faced with the dilemma of Will being so entirely unpredictable that he can never quite settle on the picture that should form.

Would Will be coy or demanding, or perhaps even downright  _ needy, _ begging for Hannibal to take him, fill him, as if the very action would sustain his life? Every option is appealing, and each just as seemingly likely for a prickly man like Will Graham.

In reality, Will appears quite comfortable spread out on Hannibal’s king-sized bed, entirely at home as though he’s sunk into the comfort of his 1500-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets on a regular basis rather than found a home for himself there for the first time. His breath hitches with every languid thrust and stretch of the fingers buried in his wet, clenching hole, but his stormy, half-lidded gaze is fixed confidently on Hannibal. The pearly white teeth that dig into Will’s plush bottom lip and the hand that pets over his stomach, perilously close to his solid, leaking cock, are just another invitation, and before he can even consider the action, Hannibal hastily begins the process of disrobing.

“You’ve made yourself at home, I see.” It’s more of a rumble than an actual  _ sentence, _ the English language suddenly thick and foregin on Hannibal’s tongue.

Will’s mouth spreads into a lazy grin as he grinds his hips down into his own hand, eyelashes fluttering momentarily before he pierces Hannibal with his steady, daring gaze once more. “It seemed as though my earlier hints weren’t very well received,” Will explains as he holds Hannibal’s gaze and pushes another finger into his wanting hole. “I thought the direct approach might be best.”

“Fortunate for us both that I’m finally catching on,” Hannibal quips, dangerously close to breathless as he sheds his button-down and begins on his trousers. “All your hard work might have been for naught.”

Will huffs at that, his derision swiftly overridden by a low groan as the fingers within him spread wide. “Just say  _ for nothing, _ you pretentious -”

Whatever insult prepared to leave Will’s lips is silenced as Hannibal throws his newly nude form into action, clambering onto the bed and pivoting his body until it’s nestled snugly over Will’s, his mouth descending upon the younger man’s and capturing it mid-sentence in a fierce kiss. 

Will, for all his stubborn obtrusiveness, seems content to allow his observation a swift death as he moans and arches into Hannibal’s touch, legs spreading to frame him and mouth stretching to allow Hannibal entrance there as well.

It feels like an invitation as much as a threat, Will’s fingers still slick with lubricant but no less harsh in Hannibal’s flesh where they dig divots everywhere they touch. He pulls Hannibal closer, snaking his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth and licking behind his teeth, fearless and bold and absolutely radiant. 

It’s settling, somehow, the confirmation that while Hannibal is strong, Will is capable of fending for himself even against his onslaught. Hannibal doesn’t relent, exploring Will’s plush lips and wet tongue with his own, his fingers fitting into the spaces between Will’s ribs as he moves him however he likes. 

Will allows the abuse, Hannibal mapping his body with his hands, leaving a trail of bruises shaped like his fingers and palms. They’ll look exquisite in the morning, the violent purples and blacks of burst vessels. Suddenly, Hannibal needs to taste Will’s blood on his tongue, staining his teeth, more than just the faint scent of it he can glean through the armor of his skin. 

He bites, though he doesn’t yet draw blood, waiting to see how Will might react. The man doesn’t disappoint,  _ keening  _ and pressing the join of his shoulder and neck against Hannibal’s teeth. Even with what he knows. Perhaps  _ because  _ of it. It pulls a visceral reaction from Hannibal, and he leans down to bite a second time, this time not stopping until he tastes copper bursting against the roof of his mouth and feels it dripping down his chin. 

Will returns the bite, leaning up to sink his teeth into Hannibal’s shoulder, his teeth far more violent and uncontrolled. Hannibal thinks he’s never been closer to release without ever being properly touched, his cock pulsing thickly between their bodies, pre-come beading at the tip. 

“Fuck, Hannibal,” Will groans, and Hannibal doesn’t leave him waiting, joining their lips together again bruisingly, smearing blood like a sacrifice between them; an offering left to the gods of old to make way for the evolution of the new. 

Hannibal feels the ghost of Will’s hand sliding down the hollow of his spine, his dry fingers finally coming to tease at the cleft of his ass. He wonders, for a moment, if he’s misread Will’s intentions, the other man so unpredictable in his actions and reactions it’s entirely possible. 

Will must notice the slight shift of his muscles and read it as hesitation because he pauses in his explorations, pulling back enough to meet Hannibal’s gaze directly. He doesn’t need to ask if everything is alright, Hannibal can see the question in the curve of his mouth. 

“I had presumed based on how I found you that it would be you receiving me tonight.” He pauses, considering the honesty of the words before they fall from his lips. “I’m not opposed to either outcome. I find I’d willingly give you anything you asked of me, Will.” 

Will’s grin is laced with both cruelty and kindness, his teeth shining and stained with Hannibal’s essence in the low light. His fingers continue their motion, carving out another piece of Hannibal as though Hannibal exists solely for his excavation and entertainment. 

Hannibal is more than willing and happy to comply.

“As much as I’d love to feel you beneath me, writhing and desperate, you weren’t off the mark; I want you to fuck me. Fill me up and quiet my mind.” 

Will pulls his hand away even as his other abandons its bruising grip on Hannibal’s hip and snakes between their bodies, taking Hannibal’s thick and heavy cock in hand and slicking it with slow, purposeful strokes. He holds Hannibal’s gaze with half-lidded eyes as his other fingers reach his mouth, though, and Hannibal can only imagine the way his clever tongue might be dancing around the digits.

“Still wanna touch you though,” he explains, his voice low and rough as his hand reaches back to its original position. His newly soaked fingers graze softly over Hannibal’s furled hole for only a moment before he pulls back slightly, the heat of his hand radiating from him to remind Hannibal how close his touch still is. “Can I?”

“Please, Will.” It’s permission as much as it’s a request, and Hannibal shivers at the light stroke of fingers at his hole once more, and then shudders when Will's lube-slicked hand snakes between them unexpectedly to grasp his cock.

His hips roll into the touch of their own volition. He feels wild, restless, and at the same time as though the entire moment in time is suspended in amber. His entire body is alight with sensation and his pulse elevates ever so slightly under Will’s ministrations. 

Will pets at his rim, teasing but never fully entering him, and Hannibal  _ aches,  _ his cock hard and leaking in Will’s hand and his body clenching desperately to Will’s teasing. 

“Fuck me, Hannibal.” It’s a command, a challenge, and the words are thick like molasses in Hannibal’s ears, Will’s accent lilting the vowels, dragging out the consonants; absolutely filthy dripping from his tongue like sweet poison. 

Will shifts beneath him, his legs spreading wide and welcoming. Hannibal  _ groans  _ when their cocks brush again, Will’s fingers pressed against Hannibal’s lower abdomen where he has his palm wrapped around Hannibal’s length. He’s leaking, smearing pre-come against Will’s balls and down his perinium, and then his cockhead is glancing against Will’s already wet rim, just a teasing bit of pressure. 

“Want it like this, want to watch you lose your composure.” Will’s voice is accusatory, enticing, and Hannibal feels far more helpless than he’s ever known; not even buried in the dark, desolate snowdrifts of his past had he known this sort of hunger and anticipation. 

He comes back into himself with another sharp bite from Will, this time to his bottom lip, slicing into the thin, delicate skin and rending it open. “Stay with me, Hannibal.” 

“Where else would I go?” Hannibal asks, breathless, and then he’s moving, shifting like a creature shedding his skin. Will claims he wants to see him,  _ know him,  _ and he won’t disappoint. Even the simple action of grinding himself back into Will’s lingering touches and then forward into the space between his wantonly open thighs is enough to have Hannibal feeling more himself again, and he shakes loose the remaining tendrils of uncertainty, returning the nip to Will’s own lips and relishing in the little moan of pained pleasure it elicits. 

He groans against Will’s plush, kiss-swollen lips as his body parts for Hannibal - nearly painfully slowly - his cock slowly enveloped by the blazing heat of Will’s tight body. It takes every ounce of Hannibal’s composure not to surge forth greedily, mindful of his lover’s pleasure. Will is not as considerate, his teasing finger breaching Hannibal in a debauched mimicry of their joining. He eases in steadily and unrelenting, pressed as deeply as he can reach even as Hannibal’s hips meet Will’s thighs.

Hannibal pauses just like that, attempting to rein in his own body’s spasming around the unexpected intrusion. Will gazes up at him, half-lidded eyes glinting mischievously even as his lungs work double-time to cope with all the sensations of their coupling. His lips, parted with his soft, panting breaths, quirk into a lazy smirk just as he gives the finger buried inside Hannibal a wiggle.

“Go on, darlin’.”

Hannibal growls at the provocation, snatching his hands back from where they’ve been idly petting across Will’s heaving torso to grip harshly at his thighs, spread them wider, push them higher. He snaps his hips forcefully into Will’s blinding heat, unmindful of the finger inside him jostled with every movement, and fucks into Will with all the vigor he can summon.

Will, for all the dominant and confident show he’s been putting on, positively  _ melts _ into Hannibal’s rougher attentions. He keens and sobs beneath him, still panting for air and hissing grunts of encouragement with every breath he  _ does _ find, just before Hannibal fucks it out of him once more. He abandons his teasing of Hannibal’s hole quickly enough, hands scrabbling to clutch at his hips, waist, shoulders. They twist into his own curls and tug viciously as he tips his head back with a whorish moan when Hannibal shifts his angle to hit Will’s prostate, and then move to his sides to clutch at the sheets as his lithe legs wrap entreatingly around Hannibal’s waist when he continues to strike the bundle of nerves with every inward thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Will chants on an almost pitiful whine,  _ “Christ, _ Hannibal - just like that,  _ please -” _

He can feel his orgasm mounting quickly, his belly warped with liquid heat as his cock throbs, balls drawing tighter. He spares a glance to the clock at his bedside, knowing that the smirk his mouth twists into is breathless and almost forced but uncaring besides as he pounds into the unpredictable, unequivocable man beneath him.

“Nearly midnight, sweet Will,” he announces between one ragged breath and the next powerful thrust. “Can I assume then this is how I’ll be spending the rest of my year? Buried inside you, fucking out every ounce of your pleasure while you sing for me?”

Will’s bark of laughter is breathless and unexpected, his pearly teeth flashing with the snarl of a grin as he pries his eyes open to peer up at Hannibal. “No,” he denies, hands leaving the twisted furroughs they’ve made of the bed sheets beside him to claw greedily at Hannibal’s hips and thighs. “I plan to fuck you just as often.”

Hannibal’s hips jerk at that, his thrusts faltering until he finds himself plunging deep into Will one last time before his pleasure mounts to breaking peaks and he pulses his release into Will’s silken heat. He slips a hand between them, pleased when Will spills as well with only a few quick tugs to his neglected cock.

They collect themselves in a comfortable silence, Hannibal resting his weight on Will until the other man grows restless beneath him, eventually using his deceptively strong thighs to twist them until they’re facing one another on their sides, come staining their thighs and groins and leaking sluggishly from Will’s body. 

Hannibal finds he doesn’t mind the mess at all, being painted with their shared release feels like a victory he never quite imagined possible. 

“We should leave,” Will pauses, his face totally void of trepidation, eyes the same clear blue of an ocean sky after a storm. “Tonight. I can have my neighbor watch the dogs for a bit longer, she’s already watched them while I was in the hospital. We could come back for Winston and Buster, at least, once we’re settled.” At this, he  _ does  _ look uncertain, his gaze seeking out Hannibal’s questioningly. 

“Whatever you want, beloved. You shall have it. All you need do is ask.” Hannibal is surprised at how honest the words are, how vibrant he feels thinking of their future together. Real and concrete now, not just the smoke and mirrors of potential outcomes he’d sustained himself on for the last several months. 

Will’s voice is hard, cracking at the edges, when he replies. “I want you as hollowed out as I am. Want you hearing nothing but my voice echoing in the halls of your memory palace just as your voice is all I hear in my own head. I don’t want a fucking audience for what we are, Hannibal. For what we  _ do together.  _ I just want us.” 

Hannibal’s lungs seize, fighting for a breath he’s momentarily certain he’ll never be able to take. “It’s a dangerous thing, darling Will. To give a man everything he could possibly want.” 

“You’re dangerous enough even when I deny you,” Will quips, and Hannibal can’t help the smile that twists his lips up. “We’ll leave Abigail the resources to buy a new life, a better life. One Jack won’t ever be able to trace.”

Hannibal blinks at Will’s sudden shift, his expression twisting to something solemn and determined. His eyes grow dark as they gaze into the middle distance, and when they flick up to take in Hannibal’s face once more, Will releases an amused huff. 

“I was able to peg you as the Ripper with a clear mind, Hannibal. Do you really think Abigail could hide behind her obfuscations and innocent doe eyes any longer?”

“If you want her safe from Jack, she’d be best off with us,” Hannibal points out, but Will is shaking his head, jaw set stonily as he denies the suggestion before it’s even finished falling from his lips.

“Abigail deserves the chance to thrive without some form of father figure influencing her. A better life for her is one without us in it. We’re an ouroboros, Hannibal. Fated to consume one another for all eternity. There’s no need to consume those around us as well. Just the thought of it is...tiring.”

Hannibal agrees. He’s taken great amusement in playing at the wolf in sheep’s clothing, adored by his blind and bleating flock, but the chance to shed the ill-fitting skin he’s been tucked away in for most of his life - to be truly  _ seen _ and accepted in turn - is a rather invigorating concept. 

He can sustain himself on Will Graham for the rest of their lives, and damn the poor soul who ever tries to separate them; even in death. Yes, Hannibal thinks, spending the year - spending eternity - consuming his love and being consumed in turn feels like more than destiny, or fate, or happenstance. It feels like coming home.

In the distance, a church bell chimes. Twelve hollow, aching peals ushering in the new year. And their new lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little bit of NYE smut! Up next, the last chapter of Sugar! 
> 
> Check us out on Twitter at @bellaraiwrites for updates on our writing and projects!


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